In a stately hall in Islington, three worlds collide. The indiepop faithful gather, drawn by the sound of mid-80s-styled jangling guitars, forlorn Belle and Sebastian vocals, and songs about weddings, funerals and jumping off Beachy Head, wrapped in melodies that tug politely at your elbow. The trendsetters are here, too, lured by the basement noir psychedelics borrowed from the Velvet Underground, by a hipster aesthetic and by the current penchant for pre-Beatles rock'n'roll. The indiepoppers' parents are here, too – there are a lot fortysomethings watching the twentysomethings on stage, drawn by their memories of the first time around. The result is 1,000 people gawping at a counterculture crossover sensation; if they only sounded a bit like Fleetwood Mac, Veronica Falls would have created the perfect indie storm.

Confident in the unifying draw of their second album, Waiting for Something to Happen, they seem unflustered by the attention. Instead, drenched in kaleidoscope visuals, singer-guitarists James Hoare (hooped baggy pullover, bowl haircut) and Roxanne Clifford (black blouse, white pearls) focus inward, flailing furiously at their Rickenbackers to create a subdued, spectral negative of rock'n'roll, a micro My Bloody Valentine. A lot of effort goes into making this hypnotic, misty squall that seems haunted by its own choruses: early single Found Love in a Graveyard resembles the Wedding Present playing at a witch-dunking.

New tunes Teenage and the Kirsty MacCollish album title track are more strident and assertive, adding crackle and making Veronica Falls look like the band to realise the indiepop brigade's wildest dreams of cultural credibility.

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